Chattertoniana

By his bed, a small leaded window

opens onto distant roofs. The drear spire

of a Shoreditch church perforates the sky.

Scant of nature, one potted plant on the sill

dwarves the buildings to a toy town.

Peaceful as he looks at rest on the bed

in trousers of lapis lazuli to the shin,

white stockings rippled, slightly soiled

from walks amid the toy town alleys,

I want to lift his hand that dangles

its last touch of the seen world,

from the floor of the tiny attic room.

Where his poison drowsy head slipped

from the yellowed bolster, I'd scoop it

upon my lap, nurse its artful contents there,

running my fingers through the flame

of his hair until I am seared by romance.

(c) Camellia Stafford